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<title>You're Cute in 💜 (You'd be Cuter in My Bathtub) by Holladay Street (street)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23100670">You're Cute in 💜 (You'd be Cuter in My Bathtub)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/street/pseuds/Holladay%20Street'>Holladay Street (street)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Women's Soccer RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bathtub Sex, F/F, Shameless Smut, instagram comments</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:28:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,543</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23100670</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/street/pseuds/Holladay%20Street</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bathtub sex. That is all.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kelley O'Hara/Emily Sonnett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You're Cute in 💜 (You'd be Cuter in My Bathtub)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Right after Emily posted her Orlando Pride intro and Kelley dropped some thirst in the comments, <a href="https://run-of-play.tumblr.com/">this picture</a> came across my tumblr dashboard. It took me back to Kelley's Beast shoot, but with a messy-blond-bun in the picture this time.<br/>I <em>may</em>  have shared this-all with my smut muse BeaSwann, who <em>may</em>  have written the title and summary <em>for me</em>  (summary now lost to the chat log ages, but I assure you it was great). And thus, some smut was born.</p><p>This is set the day Emily did her Orlando Pride media, so no Covid-19 measures in place in this fic.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"You're cute in 💜"<br/>
<br/>
Goddamnit, Kelley.</p><p>She knows, is the thing. Kelley knows <em>exactly</em> what her public thirsting does to me. She dragged that info out of me so fast it left my head spinning (well, that might have been from the orgasms, but still).</p><p>Those kinds of instagram comments were basically my brand, was the thing. They've been part of my vibe since before I got my blue checkmark on twitter. It was newer for her, though. And it started - at least I think - with me. Her dirty little heart, out there on instagram for all to see. I'm so proud.</p><p>That I have, in some small way, corrupted Kelley O'Hara is something I cherish. I carried that knowledge around - a warm, proud little bundle tucked inside my chest - for months after she started. Months of "lookin hot bb" and "those abs tho" and emojis that left me blushing. Months of carefully not bringing up those comments when we were together in person, even as I stole glances at those same things I commented on so brashly on social media - the cut of her jawline, the muscles of her calves, the lush curve of her breast.</p><p>I was an idiot, it turns out. Well, we both were, thank god. And I don't need to tuck away my pride and my blushing any more. Now I can roll on top of her in my bed, slid my palm against her breast, ask her to tell me why I'm cute. She'll argue that compliments aren't good dirty-talk, but will abandon that when I slide down, taste her, press her thighs apart as she starts to tense. I can pull away as her words scatter, insist on specificity just to irritate her. And I can't help but grin as she grinds out "your ass, it's . . . it's so little and hard and cute . . . babe, would you just lick me already? Please?" as her hips yearn up, but I shake my head and dig my fingers in a little as I press her back into the bed ". . . oh, my god, ok it's . . . it's . . . in your shorts it's so . . . I watch, I always watch, I want my hands there, oh, <em>oh yes babe, </em>please like <em>that . . ." </em>and I finally can't wait, bury my face between her legs until she's shaking, until she has no more words, until I'm so ready to go from the sounds and tastes of her that all it would take is pressure over my clit.</p><p>And, goddamnit Kelley, "You're cute in 💜" is getting me there too. The way it always does, when she's public with this stuff. Especially when I <em>just </em>posted that photo 20 minutes ago, am still wearing my new purple jersey, as I slide into the cool of my car after my morning of press for the Pride. I don't know yet how busy this employee parking lot is, but my windows are tinted and that's gonna have to be enough. I came around her fingers twice last night, but I need more already - right now.</p><p>I skate my fingers down over my black pants (well, Kelley's black pants - I didn't think to bring streetwear slim fit enough to go under a jersey when I was packing for Orlando. Thank goodness Kelley's done this whole new-club media day thing before). </p><p>I can just imagine her typing that - letting the the smallest edge of posessiveness creep in, but hitting Post anyway. Can just see her mischiveious little smile, hear that huff she gives every time she has to page through all the emoji.</p><p>And I can hear how she'd say it in person - a little smug, a little hungry, damp breath against my hear.</p><p>Oh fuckit.</p><p>I lick my fingers, slide my hand into my pants, past my underwear, hitting moisture there right away. I didn't need my fingers wet at all - damn. My hips stuttering up as soon as I hit my clit.</p><p>I want her calling me cute in public, like . . . oh god . . . like she just did on that post.</p><p>I want her fingers on me like this, pushing down, circling my entrance.</p><p>I tease my fingertips in, but the angle in my car's seat is horrible and I know it won't feel anything like how her fingers felt when we christened my Orlando apartment last night. I'm still a little sore from it. Everything feels over-sensitive, fresh, reactive, on edge.</p><p>I work back up to my clit - I swear that I can feel the ridges of my fingerprints - and ride against my own fingers. It's not going to take long.</p><p>I fumble my phone open with my clean hand, and look at the post again. 14 minutes ago, she commented. How many people have seen her reply in 14 minutes - how many strangers? How many <em>friends</em>?</p><p>I dip deep between my folds for more moisture, then keep working on my clit. I'm close. Just the thought of her interest there for everyone to see, combined with the memories of last night, and I'm right at the edge.</p><p>I look at the post again. 16 minutes. And that's it - I fall over the edge.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><strong>KO: </strong>You almost done, babe?</p><p><strong>KO: </strong>I'm bored</p><p>Christ, her timing is uncanny. I start to text back, but end up smearing my still-wet fingers across the entire phonescreen. I hastily scrub them and my phone against my pants (well, her pants. And she can't be too mad at the streaks - they're her fault to begin with).</p><p><strong>Sonny: </strong>Just finished up.</p><p>(<em>There's </em>an understatement.)</p><p><strong>KO: </strong>Come hooooooome</p><p><strong>KO:</strong> I want you in my bathtub...</p><p><strong>Sonny: </strong>Dude. That's MY bathtub.</p><p><strong>Sonny: </strong>omw</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>My plan had been to live in the Pride's team housing alongside this year's draft picks and most of the internationals. But the building had a no pets policy - clearly, someone somewhere hated happiness. </p><p>I'd found a place just a couple blocks away though - a sub-lease from an artist who had a residency out of state. The location was perfect for me and Bagel - across from a park, walking distance to players' housing and the beach, just a short drive to the stadium. The apartment was kind of wild, though. Huge windows to let the light in, the bed freestanding in the middle of the main room, and an improbably large bathroom where someone had decided to really live it up and install a tub under the window, even though there was already a perfectly good shower. <br/>
When Kelley'd come over last night she'd immediately zeroed in on the bathroom, sprawling into the dry tub, tilting her face up at me over its broad rolled edge and laughing at the extravagance of it. The last of the winter sunshine streaming across her face. I looked at her in that moment and even everything - the new club and the unfamiliar city and the damn Olympic roster - felt fine. Felt so fine it was like they didn't even matter. Because Kelley O'Hara was sprawled in my bathtub, looking at me like that, and reaching up to play with a loose thread of my cutoffs. With Kelley O'Hara was looking at me like that, I felt sure that nothing would <em>not</em> be fine ever again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When I open my bathroom door to Kelley in the tub, and it's a different sureness that clicks into place this time. I don't know how I didn't see it yesterday, how it wasn't the first thing I thought of when the artist showed me the apartment, but now I can't think of anything else.</p><p>I already knew what the Beast products smelled like, before Kelley put that spread on insta. She talked about the products non-stop before launching with them. She would pull me, nose-first, into her loose hair to admire the smell. So the sense-memory of cedar and sandalwood would waft up every time I looked at those photos (well, until other smells took over - we might not have been fucking then, but my fingers got a workout every time I visited her photo grid).</p><p>Now, Kelley is lounging in my bathtub. Her hair is tied up, and there's bubblebath everywhere, and Kelley's feet propped - casual but proprietary, ankles crossed - up on the edge of the bath. The familiar cedar and sandalwood scent is everywhere.</p><p>"<em>My </em>bathtub", I say, at a loss for anything else. She's too fucking pretty for me to really think right now.</p><p>"Nope!" she responds cheerfully, "I got first bath. It's mine now."</p><p>"You see though, that's not how leases work." I'm drifting across the room towards the tub. I would've had to stay by the door if I want any chance of winning this conversation. That I'm moving toward her already means she's already won. </p><p>She's smiling at me - far too calm, too serene, I need to prod at that confidence, goad a reaction of some kind . . . and then she lunges - careless of the water that rolls over the edge of the tub.</p><p>She's got my purple Pride shirt fisted in her hand before I can skip out of reach. The look on her face pure mischief now (of course she was plotting. Of goddamn <em>course</em>.)</p><p>"You're cute in purple." Is all she says, once I'm perched on the edge of the tub, her fingers already sliding under my shirt - warm and wet. "You'd be cuter in my bathtub." she murmurs, just as she finds the clasp of my bra.</p><p>I don't even protest. I'm too busy with the way my hands slip against her wet skin, the way the soap suds are gliding over freckles.</p><p>I'm too busy shucking off my pants and underwear, making a move toward my shirt until she launches again - another wave of water across the floor - and pulls me in, still half-dressed.<br/>
<br/>
"Couldn't wait two more minutes for me to take my shirt off, huh?" I ask. I'm trying to sound grumpy, but her skin is <em>right there</em>, and her hands are all over. I go for her breasts (if she's being eager like this, well then, than I can too), lifting them out of the water and staring at how the bubbles slid away.</p><p>"Mmm but don't you..." she interrupts herself to kiss my neck, "Sonny, don't you wanna start building positive associations with wearing purple?"</p><p>"I guess..." I agree, only half paying attention. Her nipples were tightening as I run my thumbs over them. "It's not gonna be positive though, if it means you're not touching me."</p><p>"Mm, good point." she says - hands skipping down to my bare ass, kneading at the muscles there, letting her own legs drift open and sliding one of mine against herself.</p><p>Oh god, I want to be in her just like this - buoyed up, that extra sensory layer of water touching everywhere - I want her g-spot under my fingers until her chin tilts up and her breathing goes ragged.</p><p>I slide my thigh against her, grin as she starts moving too - finding a teasing rhythm right away. The fabric of my shirt zings with extra friction against my belly - nowhere near as good skin on skin, but still good. There's no stimulation on my nipples though - this wet bra is doing nothing.</p><p>"Ok, these are going away now." I arch up to peel the shirt and bra off, careful to keep my thigh pressed hard against her. I get them as far as my upper arms before the sodden mess twists and binds and catches me there. Kelley makes an eager, inarticulate sound and grabs the fabric. Not helping (of course not), just holding it there with my arms above my head while she kisses my clavicles, my breasts, runs her tongue down my abs.</p><p>"Damnit, Kelley. Take it <em>off</em>."</p><p>"Uh-huh, yeah, in a minute." she answers, not even looking at me as she mouthes across my breasts. And then, "Oh, oh Sonny, fuck, yeah . . . lemme . . ." (One careful grind against her and she's rushing to push the shirt off my arms. It's <em>so</em> nice to know I've still got game.)</p><p>We splash down - naked <em>finally </em>- and she tangles her legs around mine until we're sliding together. She starts to drive the tempo and I stop us.</p><p>"Nuh-uh," I say, "my bathtub my rules, babe." </p><p>She pouts as I slide away, slide down. Even though I <em>know </em>she knows this is going good places.</p><p>So, Kelley likes foreplay. But she likes being made to wait even better. Usually I'd go right for the crease of her thigh - nibble and lick and then get right down to business until she's almost coming, and then pause . . . wait until she starts clutching my hair and talking fast - persuading, begging, bargaining. And then I'd wait some more before I took her over the edge.</p><p>Today though, well for starters I'd need gills to go down on her right now. And also I'm just really fucking distracted. Her skin is <em>glistening </em>with damp and I don't think ever seen every single freckle this vivid (and I've looked plenty).</p><p>I start by biting just inside her knee (well, I might also have my thumb on her clit - I'm not <em>completely </em>heartless). She's already grabbing at me, soapy fingers sliding over my shoulders, as her thighs fall open.</p><p>"C'mon Sonny, give me more - give me <em>some</em>thing. I was waiting for you before - you took <em>so </em>long to get here. You've gotta give me your fingers, Son..."</p><p>She always starts like this. Ninety percent demands. So entitled. I work up the plane of her thigh - wiping the bubbles away before licking soft patterns, biting just a little too light, pressing soft kisses.</p><p>"Please, Son? I'm ready - I'm so ready, and then it'll be your turn so fast, you won't even <em>believe </em>how soon you're gonna be..."</p><p>I pick up a gob of bubbles and blow them towards her face. They actually make it all the way to her, and then we're both laughing - her slipping down in the water as she smears the suds off her face, me at how indignant she looks but also at how her legs are still open to me, her hips still tilting up almost mindlessly even while she'd distracted. </p><p>I can't help myself. I'd meant to stretch things out but she's <em>right here - </em>lithe and slippery and giggling and so hot, so dear, so wiggly. I slide three fingers inside her and bow my head to bite as high against her thigh as I can reach through the mass of bubbles.</p><p>And now she's stopped bargaining - she's lost most of her words. She's pulling me against her, pulling me up until I can wedge a thigh behind my hand for extra power, until her legs are tangled up and helping me move, helping me fuck her, helping us send water and bubbles over the lip of the tub with every thrust until her breathing changes and her eyes slam shut and she's whispering "Sonny, please? Right there, please? Oh god . . . oh god, oh my god . . ."</p><p>She must inhale a few of the free-floating bubbles as she comes, because then she's coughing and giggling and pulling me up to kiss her, pulling my hair out of its bun until I do the same to hers and everything's a mess of wet skin and hair and laughing.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Take good care, I love you all.<br/>Stay safe, stay sane, stay home, wash your hands.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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